


Teacher

by ObsessiveDebauchery



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessiveDebauchery/pseuds/ObsessiveDebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake is usually such a good student. But lately he's being distracted by something, or rather someone. Luckily his teacher Barsad has his favourite student's best interests in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teacher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> First: yes, this is a high school AU but because underage isn't (usually) something for me John Blake is eighteen in this story.
> 
> Second: this was written in response to this post: www.crewdlydrawn.com/image/43178703431  
> because... well look at it. Josh Stewart's a teacher. It was inspiring, okay?

“...Blake.”

 

“Psst... Blake.”

 

“Blake!”

 

He looked up and saw the guy sitting in front of him staring, with eyes so intense he seemed to be trying to convey a message telepathically. It suddenly became obvious that he was at the centre of attention. His smile, brought on by what he'd just read, wavered as he caught the eyes of the rest of his amused classmates and then his teacher. Oops. So the intent to 'hide in plain sight' was a bust.

 

“Sorry...”

 

He quickly shoved his cell phone into the desk and lowered the book he'd propped up as a wall flat on the plywood as was expected. With a few giggles all eyes focused once again on the man standing at the simple podium in front of the black board who gave a little disappointed shake of his head before resuming attendance.

 

When he finished some students started to converse quietly amongst themselves as he filed away the school's papers then crouched down to leaf through the courier bag on the floor by his desk. Blake's eyes snapped back to the cell phone concealed just inside the desk where the screen continued to light up every time he received a new text message. At the rate they were arriving his phone would lose half its battery life before the middle of the school day. His shot back and forth as he read them all as fast as he could, his fingers scrolling through them as subtly as he knew how.

 

Just then their teacher began to walk around between the desks, distributing their previous week's tests whose results were obvious if judged by the receiving student's reaction; a sigh, a groan, the sound of paper being crushed in an embrace (which, with students, could be relief or rage). And then arose louder conversations as people leaned this way and that to compare results. When he stopped at Blake's side he dropped an 'A' graded test on his open text book and held out his hand. Without a word but rolling his eyes a bit in bother Blake surrendered his cell phone. And then the rest of the tests were distributed just as soundlessly.

  
  
That was one thing that many students liked about Mr. B (the man had a foreign surname that no one could pronounce, and feeling uncomfortable calling him by his first name (Barsad, equally strange) everyone settled on his initial): he didn't look to embarrass anybody in his classes. He was quiet in his politeness, and in general, which initially seemed strange for a teacher. But from their first day he was stern, speaking only to teach and offer curt explanations to answer questions and it took the class a few weeks to realize that he wasn't being a tyrant, but simply treating them like adults.

 

Moving back to his desk, he set down Blake's phone, picked up a new piece of chalk along with his lesson notes and turned around to write on the board. When he rested the chalk where he'd just finished underlining a name for emphasis he rotated back to the podium, facing them and asking for someone to read from the text to begin the lesson. Blake and a few others raised their hands. He was among the fortunate students that grasped information easily and come exam time their study groups would be the ones that their peers would plead to join.

 

_Exams..._

 

When finals were mentioned, or when he thought of them, he stared much more appreciatively at his teacher. Because their approaching exam days at the end of the academic year would be their last. And school would be finished. Then...

 

“Blake.”

 

This time when he blinked and found the class watching him he straightened up a bit and looked around for a clue as to what he'd missed. The laughs from his classmates were much more audible as the teacher frowned and continued to wait. Mercifully, after a few seconds, the student sitting beside him quickly leaned over and pointed to a highlighted text in the book and whispered, “Read this part.” And with a nod he held up his book and read aloud, feeling those eyes on him the whole time.

 

His focus didn't improve much when that class finished and he moved from room to room and lesson to lesson. But his teachers didn't seem to expect much else from a senior and he suffered little else besides embarrassment.

 

The bell that finally rang at the end of the day had the affect on the students that a starting gun would at a race track; the doors opened and students poured onto the grounds and began their trek away from the building, the bus stop about two blocks away or one of the cars lined up down half the block their finish lines.

 

Blake smiled as a friend told him a joke on their way to the bus stop, arriving just as one was approaching their stop. “Did you get the invite yet?” a classmate, already waiting in line, piped up when she saw him approach. And then he began to look for his phone; in his coat pockets, his pants', even his bag. “Oh man, you didn't get it back from Mr. B?”

 

“Shit.” Blake frowned and looked regrettably at the bus as it pulled up to the curb. “Tough luck man,” his friends sympathized yet simply waved him off dramatically as they boarded the bus. He flipped them off and stomped back in the direction of the school.

 

A few groups of students were still hanging around and as he approached the front door he spotted a pair of his classmates walking past, out the door. They did a double take when he met their eyes in acknowledgement and asked him why he was returning. Everyone knew that if you had a bus to catch you hauled ass to do so. The more you waited the longer it might take to get home. And no one wanted to be out in Gotham when it got dark. “Forgot my phone,” he mumbled, 'trying' to look more irritated than embarrassed. They laughed sympathetically and he rolled his eyes and told them to shut the fuck up. Of course they laughed harder.

 

Inside, taking the steps two at a time, he silently entered the hallway and made his way towards his classroom at the other end, grateful at the chance to assess the situation. The first classroom he passed seemed to be having some sort of club meeting but all others, he quickly gathered, were locked and empty (hopefully empty, anyways). He stepped into the door frame and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching, waiting.

 

Even though Blake preferred him in nothing at all he had to admit the man wore his clothes well; today it was khakis, his usual shirt and tie, and a wool sweater vest. Typically he hadn't even loosened his tie as he sat at his desk reading something. Blake blinked as his brain finally registered that he was speaking, to _him (_ maybe he should worry about his inability to focus lately... the way he was going a speeding car could sneak up on him).

 

“Come for your phone?”

 

How the _hell_ did he do that? Every time. The man seemed impossible to sneak up on. “Yeah, actually. How'd you guess?” Blake smirked, absently running a hand through his hair as he approached the desk. He noticed that he had in fact been reading a novel, which he marked with a frayed looking ribbon hanging from the spine before looking up at him. “Can I have it then? I'm expecting a text. Please?” he added sweetly.

 

“So I saw. A party? I hope it will not interfere with your studies, John,” Barsad said with a small smile.

 

John leaned against the desk and gripped the edge with both hands, bouncing one heel off the toes of his other shoe. “Well I'll know whose house to go to if I'm piss drunk. And most likely horny,” he added with a sultry smile. It made Barsad chuckle before he looked back at his book. “Alright. I gotta catch my bus,” John reminded him and held out a hand.

 

“I thought we had an understanding about your getting it back.”

 

John stopped moving and frowned a bit, thinking over their limited verbal exchanges that day until that very moment. Had he missed something? Did they agree on something he'd forgotten about? And just like that the first thing Barsad had said when he appeared at his door moments ago suddenly clicked in his brain:

 

_Come for your phone_.

 

“Yes sir,” he grinned and straightened to undo his pants.

 

With a half-hard erection John walked in font of him, sat on the edge of the desk as the book was closed and set to one side, placed a foot on either armrest of Barsad's office chair and slowly leaned back to lie down, careful not to knock anything over.

 

“You are a bright student, John. You just have to apply yourself. Focus.”

 

“Yes sir.” Shifting a bit until he was lying comfortably enough on uneven stacks of papers and was felt like a few pens, John began to stroke himself.

 

“You test well,” Barsad continued, and John loved that he could almost hear his smile, his approval. “But class participation is just as essential.”

 

“Yes sir.” He closed his eyes and exhaled, pushed everything back in his mind except for the moment, gave his cock quick twists and squeezes, let his knees fall apart.

 

“I hope this sort of this does not happen again.”

 

“Yes. Yes sir.” John's hands alternated between attending to his cock and his balls. He bit his lip and moaned a bit in complaint as he was accustomed to a bit of help, or at least some form or participation. But he forced himself not to voice this.

 

The rush that he felt from the risk of getting caught certainly helped get his adrenaline going, made his hands move just a bit faster, press just a bit harder against his skin, but there was something else, too. Something new that he was learning to feel: possessiveness.

 

He'd known jealousy throughout his life. And longing was certainly familiar. But this sensation, this _instinct_ , as he abandoned control and shame, just because he knew it made _his_ man satisfied, was simultaneously worse and the best. It drove him crazy, made him think and act in ways that had frightened him at first. But now... Well now he was learning, inside the classroom and out.

 

“John.”

 

_Fuck._ When Barsad spoke his name like that, softly, adoringly... It made John's heart ache with love. Or maybe it was just relief. Because Barsad was one of the few people that called him by his name. And through that simple act he became more than just 'Blake'; his father's son, just another screw up waiting to happen...

 

“ _John_.”

 

That tone, the way he said it, that faint purring deep in his throat as he half breathed and half spoke his name, was becoming very familiar to John too, though he knew whom Barsad was picking it up from. Oh, John was so close... There. Right _there_.

 

Suddenly, just as he came, his hands clutched the edge of the desk for dear life. He arched his back, raising his hips. His mouth opened in a silent cry as Barsad gently suckled at his swollen head, swallowing his load. When John was finished and he dropped back down onto the desk with a strangled moan Barsad giving his entire length one strong suck, pulling back with a wet suction, as if he didn't want to lose a drop, and John lay smiling stupidly for a moment as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“I am glad we had this talk,” Barsad said. “Asshole,” John muttered. Even through his sex-hazed mind could tell he was grinning smugly, so fucking proud of himself, as he placed a few gentle kisses on his inner thighs. John groaned, not really wanting to get up (ever again) but knowing he had to, and ran his hands through his hair as he felt his pants being pulled closed and done up. “I should cut my hair,” he mused, accepting the hand offered to help him sit up. Barsad looked at it and blinked.

 

Sometimes John marvelled at his... sparse range of expressions.

 

He smiled about it to himself as he checked to make sure that his clothes hadn't been stained or ripped.

 

“I'll see you after the party,” John informed him, holding his hand out. “Perhaps someone will pick you up that night,” Barsad replied with a small shrug as he returned the phone and settled back in his chair, picking up his book and opening it to his marked page just as John walked to the doorway, cast a glance around the hallway, relieved to find it empty, and turned.

 

“Yeah? Perhaps _someone_ should excuse me for not coming to school if I'm going to be kept from sleeping for two days,” he suggested.

 

Without looking up from his book Barsad snickered. “And what reason should we write on your file?”

 

John believed that he was terribly clever for having thought it and said, “How about 'physical overexertion'?” But then he believed that he was terribly stupid for opening his big fat mouth as Barsad, believing in academic integrity and whatnot, nodded in agreement. “We will have to make it convincing,”

 

' _Oh fuck'_ , thought John.


End file.
